


state of limbo

by ggggnashville



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Mild Alcohol Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 13:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: John knows Sherlock is alive.  And there's nothing else to do but wait for him.





	state of limbo

There’s a note.

It’s in the dresser, between a pair of navy blue socks and an old tie that John hasn’t worn in ages. It’s _his_ loopy scrawl, there’s no doubt about it. At first John thinks it must be a mistake. Something _he_ left months ago. But when John reads it, he knows that can’t be right. John’s hand shakes hard as he holds the note in his right hand, the left clenching and unclenching at his side. John huffs out a breath and blinks rapidly.

“Alright. Yeah. Okay,” he whispers to himself. John swallows hard. His mouth is dry.

_Sorry about all of this. Be back as soon as possible. S_

*

 

Two weeks previous, John had come back to Baker Street, numb. He had wanted to do something that would make him feel anything, but he hadn’t even been able to cry. He hadn’t been able to do that until he had gone to the grave. And then naturally he had gotten too drunk, and had written up a draft in his blog, a very embarrassing and very accurate thousand word essay about how in love with his flat mate he is. Reading it back once he was hung over and sober was quite tragic, but John hadn’t deleted it. He wasn’t ready to delete it. It was a testament to his love, and John was very much in love with flat mate. His tall, obnoxious, and beautiful flat mate. Who had most inconveniently jumped off a rooftop in front of John. It was cruel, but John hadn’t even had the chance to be angry, he had only gotten to feel emptiness and sadness before he had found the note, tucked neatly into the back of his dresser.

John had ended up being angry about something completely different. _He_ was alive, out there somewhere, saving the world, and he hadn’t taken John with him. The utter bastard. Why hadn’t he taken John with him? Did he not think John was enough? Had he just wanted to be alone? But then, why would he leave the note?

John sits in his chair, holding the note in both of his hands, turning the small piece of paper over and over. The tea at his elbow has gotten cold.  
  
Despite the slip of paper, Baker Street still feels empty. It feels like it can’t be true. John thinks about showing the note to Mycroft, but then he thinks about what _he_ would think about John showing it to his older brother. John can almost hear his voice, saying something like _For God’s sake, he wasn’t supposed to know!_ Besides, the note is clearly for John specifically. It’s something that shows it’s just for the two of them. Their secret. John smiles at the thought, but it fades quickly as John continues to inspect the thin paper. He clears his throat and then puts the note down next to the cold tea. He rubs his eyes, feeling tired.

John misses him. He misses him so much. It’s only been two weeks but Christ, does he miss him. There’s no way to know when he’ll be back, but this is at least a small mercy, knowing that he isn’t dead. It’s a comfort and a frustration to know that the Gangly Nightmare is wandering the world, off having some sort of grand adventure, and John is here alone in Baker Street. John looks at the tea cup with the cold tea. He wants to throw the tea cup at the wall. He doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and dumps the tea down the drain.

 

*

 

John wakes up in the middle of the night. The small of his back is damp, and so is his neck. He rolls over onto his back and then sees a shadow in the doorway. A tall and too thin shadow with a mop of hair.

“Sherlock?” John says, quietly in the darkness. His voice is thick from sleep. The shadow stops being a shadow, and there he is. He sits down on John’s bed but he isn’t looking at John. John turns towards the side table to turn the light on. The glow from the lamp floods the room and John blinks hard at the harsh light and then turns back towards him, but he’s gone now. The bedroom door is wide open. There’s a loud bang that comes from downstairs, it sounds like a mug has been smashed in the kitchen.

And then John wakes up.

 

*

 

Mrs. Hudson dotes on John constantly. She brings him tea in the morning and afternoons. Sometimes she brings up sandwiches too. She goes around the flat picking things up and dusting when there’s no dust left. She does the dishes all the time, tells John not to worry about a thing. The problem is, John isn’t worried. He isn’t even sad, and all of her doting makes him feel guilty.

He acts sad though. Not all the time, but every once in a while. Everyone believes Sherlock is dead, so that must be what Sherlock wants. John has folded the note up and placed it back inside his dresser.

“John, how has the clinic been?” Mrs. Hudson asks as she scrubs the counters with a little green sponge. John folds up the newspaper he’s reading and places it on the kitchen table. He folds his hands in his lap and gives her a tight smile.

“Fine. It’s been…good. You know you don’t have to do that Mrs. H.”

“Nonsense John, it’s nothing at all dear.” She continues to scrub and starts humming. He’s tried to stop her over the last few weeks, but she continues and shows no signs of relenting. It’s not as if he can tell her to stop doting, on account of Sherlock being alive and all. Mrs. Hudson hums and John starts to whistle. She smiles at him while she wrings out the sponge. John picks the newspaper back up and tries to concentrate on the words, biting his bottom lip the entire time he pretends to read.

 

*

 

John opens the dictionary and the notecard falls out. The writing on it is a very dark black, the lines of the words thick.

_MEET ME WHERE WE MET 4/16 3 PM  S_

John stares at the notecard. It’s yellowing around the edges. John inhales sharply. This has to be from a month ago. This can’t be a coincidence. The first one John had believed regardless, but now he’s really sure. He realizes his heart is pounding. April sixteenth is a week from today. He might never have found this note. He wonders how many others might be around the house. The notecard falls from John’s fingers and he turns quickly and his eyes dart around the flat. He lunges at the desk and opens it. Nothing. Only the usual. Paper clips and staples and Bic pens Sherlock has chewed on. He leaves the desk and goes back to the bookshelf. He pulls every book off of the shelf after shaking each one thoroughly. Nothing. The books are scattered across the rug. _The rug_. John kicks the books away and throws the rug over. Nothing. John goes to the sofa next. He pulls the cushions off and then dives underneath. Nothing. He goes to the kitchen. He pulls open every cabinet, every drawer, searches the crisper behind the thumbs he never threw out. John runs to the bathroom. He accidently spills his aftershave on the tile. He opens up every bottle of hair product, just in case there’s somehow something hidden inside the smell of mint and lavender. Nothing.

Finally, he goes to Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s hard to be in here. It smells like Sherlock. John goes to fling open Sherlock’s dresser drawer but then stops, suddenly hesitant. It feels too personal. But he forges ahead. He needs to. Seeing Sherlock again depends on it. He opens the drawers. Sherlock’s sock index stares back at John. John pushes the socks away and finds nothing. The next drawer is starch white t-shirts and things he used to wear to bed. The third drawer is more of the same but there’s no notes. No secret messages. Of course.

John looks in Sherlock’s closet, and under his bed, and underneath his poster of the periodic table, just in case. There’s nothing anywhere. John goes back out into the living room. The flat is completely torn apart. Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit. John realizes he should put the flat back together. Instead he collapses into his chair and feels a bit like having a cry. Sherlock is alive, somewhere, and John wishes he had more to go off of. He wishes Sherlock had left more clues. He has one date, and Sherlock had to have known it was possible that there was a possibility that John wouldn’t have opened that book. It makes sense that he would have left more than one hint.

“Have we been robbed?”

John looks up from watching the floor and sees Mrs. Hudson, her face scrunched up with surprise.

 

*

 

He grabs a cab to St. Bart’s and gets there a half an hour early. He looks up at the roof and swallows hard. His hands clench at his sides. He shakes away the memory. His stomach hurts from the anxiety, and he shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just Sherlock.

It’s just Sherlock.

John goes to the lab and sits down. He props his feet up on a second chair, folds his arms across his chest and waits.

He waits twenty minutes, and then forty five. He checks his phone. He has brought the note with him, and he inspects it two times to make sure he hasn’t gotten anything wrong. But it’s the date and the time and the place they met. An hour passes. Then two. Nothing happens. John sighs and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. He falls asleep after the second hour, and wakes up five later with a sore arse and back.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” John says. He stretches, gets up from his seat, and leaves.

 

*

 

Sherlock is standing on the coffee table. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and there’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

“You’re back,” John says. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been right here,” Sherlock replies. He smiles wide and toothy.

The kettle is going off in the kitchen. It’s whistling and shrieking and John turns towards the stove. When he turns back to the coffee table, Sherlock is gone again.

John wakes up on the sofa, the Union Jack pillow tucked under his arms. He runs a hand over his face.

 

*

 

Mrs. Hudson makes the suggestion of donating some of Sherlock’s things. The lab equipment for starters. It’s only unfortunate that John can’t think up a suitable excuse.

“John, I really think it would be good. Just to clear the air a bit. It’s just a reminder of…well…” She trails off, worrying at her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I’m just not ready Mrs. H.,” John says. He hopes it will suffice. He even tries to look a bit sadder. He does miss Sherlock, so it isn’t terribly hard. She gives him a pitying look, and then sits down at the kitchen table next to him.

“I know dear, I miss him too.” She takes one of John’s hands across the table, and he considers for a moment telling her. _It’s okay Mrs. Hudson, the utter bastard left me a note. He’s alive. He’ll be back sometime, at some point, meanwhile I miss him so much I feel like I’m being ripped limb from limb._ Mrs. Hudson continues her patting against John’s fingers and wrist. “I know, I’ll make a cuppa.”

John nods in agreement. He looks at the microscope on the counter and can almost see Sherlock standing over it, inspecting something. Making an offhand snide comment. Being handsome with the afternoon light floating in through the window. John sighs into his hand and shakes his head. The utter tosser. Making John fall in love with him and then pretending to be dead for three months.

 

*

 

He’s in love. And the man he’s in love with is missing. So John gets drunk about it. It’s a bar three blocks from the flat. He’s been there in the past. Numerous times in fact. He used to go there when Sherlock would frustrate him. When Sherlock was being a complete arsehole and John just needed to grab a pint. Like a bickering old married couple. John laughs lightly into his sweating beer glass. He shakes his head, bites his bottom lip.

It’s his third beer of the night. He wishes he knew a better way to deal with the missing. It’s more annoying than anything else. Knowing Sherlock is alive and not knowing what to do about that fact. He knows what he would _like_ to do about that fact. He would like to kiss Sherlock within an inch of his life. But instead John is trapped here in limbo.

He doesn’t even know if Sherlock felt that way about him. He probably didn’t. Sherlock didn’t ever want anyone in that way, and certainly not John. John tries to imagine Sherlock wanting anyone, kissing anyone, being _that_ way. Turns out that’s the wrong train of thought. Thinking about Sherlock in that way makes John cough into his fist and adjust himself on his barstool.

“You doing okay?” She asks. She has blonde hair and pink glossy lips. She looks young. Probably still in university.

“Fine,” John replies, and takes a sip of his beer.

“You sure, you look a little…off,” she finishes.

“Yeah, fine,” John says. He smiles at her with her open and vulnerable face. She’s probably drunk. He wonders where all of her friends are.

“Who are you with?” She asks, looking around.

“Nobody.”

“Really?”

 John scoffs and shakes his head.

“Where are your friends?” John finally asks, when she doesn’t immediately go away.

“I’m here alone.”

John raises his eyebrows at her. He sees she looks sad.

“Why?” She’s too young to be in a bar filled with men, completely alone. Or maybe John has just had a little too much beer.

“I don’t know. I live across the street and I thought I’d come in. I’ve never been in here before.” She shrugs. “I’m Anna by the way.”

“I’m John.”

“Nice eyes,” Anna says, pointing at his face. She’s drunk and giggly.

“Do you need me to walk you across the street?” As soon as he says it he realizes what it sounds like. He bites his bottom lip.

“Maybe.”

John sighs heavily. He needs to walk the three blocks home. This is ridiculous. He’s drunk and misses Sherlock. John looks at this girl with a gap between her teeth, mouth slightly open. All the more reason.

Anna downs the rest of her drink. The ice clinks as she slams the glass back down on the bar counter. She turns her head back towards John. She takes his hand in hers. Her nails are painted black and she’s wearing three giant rings. She interlaces their fingers. He’s worried about her. She looks about to cry. He needs to stop this.

“Let’s go,” she says softly. John pulls a few bills out of his pocket and gets off the bar stool. They cross the street to her flat, narrowly missing a cab. John pulls her out of the way just in time. She puts a hand on his bad shoulder and giggles again.

“Thanks.”

She squeezes his hand and then gets her keys out of her bag.

“All right, I’m go--” John starts, but then Anna kisses him. Her hair is soft, falling on John’s cheek. She tastes like pomegranate. For a few seconds, John lets it happen. Then he puts a hand on her shoulder and gently pushes.

“What?”

“I need to go home.” John gives her a tight lipped smile. He feels like he’s cheated. Sherlock isn’t is boyfriend though. He never was.

“Alone?” Anna asks. She’s very pretty. John’s tipsy, and sways a little.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Um. I’ll go in now.” She’s practically whispering. She looks so hurt at his rejection, but that only means someone else hurt her much more recently.

“Good night,” John says, and then turns away from her, and heads home. He doesn’t look back. He feels so guilty for so many things.

When he gets home he warms up left over casserole from Mrs. Hudson. He falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up in the morning with a headache.

“Christ,” he mumbles to himself. He thinks about nine hours ago and gets up to shower and brush his teeth. When he comes out of the bathroom he sees that Mrs. Hudson has left him tea and toast. She’s playing radio and washing dishes downstairs. He eats the toast and gets dressed. He goes to Tesco and buys shampoo, laundry detergent, and oranges. He takes the tube back and checks the mail on the way in.

It’s mostly trash and bills, but he sees the postcard sticking out between two envelopes. It’s a painting of a little girl looking nervous. Her hands are covered with her two large jacket sleeves and both hands are held up to her face. Her hair is falling over her face. There’s a black and white town behind her. A painting of a painting. John turns the postcard over and reads: _PRESENCE: The Paintings of Ann Piper and Aaron Morgan Brown April 13 through May 10. The Lore Degenstein Gallery, Susquehanna University Charles B. Degenstein Campus Center, Selinsgrove, PA 17870._ On the other side, there’s a message. It’s in that stupid scribbly loopy handwriting.

_Taking longer than expected_

_Doing my best_

_Sorry about all of this_

He didn’t sign it, but it’s obviously him. It’s his handwriting. John drops the shopping and the oranges roll out of the bag. Part of John wants to rip the postcard in half. The other half wants to cry, just a little. Sherlock is in America. Or was, just a few days ago. John imagines Sherlock with all of his hair cut off, no longer in any of his silk button ups or suit jackets. Just wearing t-shirts. It’s getting into summer now. He can see Sherlock in raggedy thin t-shirts and jeans, trying to blend it. Maybe even wearing ball caps and sunglasses. The image is both funny and enticing. John stands out on the steps, staring at the postcard, for how long he isn’t sure. When he comes out of it, John feels vaguely ill. Like he might faint. Which is very stupid. He knows Sherlock is alive, it isn’t like he forgot. But just the reminder. A physical proof of his existence. It’s throwing John off kilter.

He feels overwhelmed with the desire to see him. To touch him. To run his hands through his hair. Kiss his jawline. Or just hold him. That would be nice too. Or at least being able to speak to him. To tell him what an arsehole he is. To ask him why he didn’t take John with him. Yet he keeps sending John notes. John wonders for a moment if he would be better off just thinking Sherlock is dead. But no, that would be cruel, and utterly heartbreaking. That would be too much, and John pushes the thought away immediately.

The last line on the postcard is sloppier than the other two. Like it was more rushed. He wonders if Sherlock is in pain.

“Shit,” John mumbles, and then picks up the shopping and goes inside. He shoves the postcard in the back of his top dresser drawer, along with the two other notes. He isn’t crazy, Sherlock is out there somewhere, and he cares enough to send messages.

 

*

 

Mycroft shows up after six months. John comes down from his bedroom to see Mycroft sitting in Sherlock’s chair. Mrs. Hudson has made tea. John gives her a look as if to say _Don’t make_ him _tea!_ She shrugs and places biscuits on the coffee table. John rolls his eyes and sits in his chair across from Mycroft.

“What do you want?” John asks. He’s still half asleep. He sips his tea and doesn’t break eye contact.

“Just wondering how you’re doing.” He actually doesn’t look smug for once.

John leans forward on his knees. He folds his hands in front of him and licks his lips.

“Where is he?” John whispers. Mrs. Hudson has gone back downstairs, but just in case.

“Where is who?” Mycroft says. There’s the smug look. John exhales hard through his nose.

“You know very well who. Why else would you be here? I’ve been getting his messages you know.”

Mycroft’s smug smile falters. He clearly didn’t know about the messages.

“That wasn’t part of our plan. He asked me to check on you.”

John sits back in his chair. His face feels hot. He blinks rapidly. Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“You can tell him…I’m fine. You can tell him…” John trails off, then clears his throat and tries again. “Where the hell is he?” John hisses.

“Los Angeles, last I spoke to him.” Mycroft crosses his legs. “You seem angry.”

“No, you think?” John says. He drums his fingers against his thigh. “He made me watch him die and then he runs off on some adventure without me. Utter bastard.”

“He’s not off on some adventure. It’s not _fun,_ John.” Mycroft actually looks a little cross, but his voice stays even. “He’s eliminating Moriarty’s web. It’s become very inconvenient for both of us.”

“Why am I not helping him?” John asks. He pronounces each syllable with care. He breathes out of his nose and counts to ten.

“You have to be here. Otherwise they’d know he was alive. Don’t be thick John.”

“But I want to help him. If he’s in danger I want to help.”

“This is what he needs you to do.” Mycroft sets his teacup down and picks up his umbrella. “He wasn’t supposed to contact you. That was very stupid of him.”

“So I was just supposed to think he was dead, for how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

Mycroft gets up and saunters out. John can hardly breathe. He might need to hyperventilate into the Union Jack pillow. Sherlock is out there, alone, in danger. And John can’t do anything to protect him. There have been dozens of times where they’ve been on a case together, and John has had to fight people off of Sherlock. He’d had to kill someone the second night he knew Sherlock. John closes his eyes and tries to remember that Sherlock survived for thirty years without him. But John loves him, and he wants to protect him. It’s instinct.

“Dammit,” John says, and gets up to shower.

 

*

 

“You left me,” John says.

“You know I didn’t,” Sherlock responds. His eyes are wide and his brows are pulled together with worry. He’s sitting across from John at the kitchen table. All the lights in the flat are off, but John can still see the outlines of his face. He’s too thin. He’s not eating enough.

“It sure feels like it.”

“I’m sorry. But at least I didn’t let you think I was dead.”

“Small mercies,” John grumbles, and crosses his arms.

Sherlock reaches across the table and puts his hand on John’s forearm. It’s warm. His hand swallows up John’s arm. John has forgotten how tall Sherlock is. The bathroom light goes on all on its own and John looks behind him. When he looks back Sherlock is gone. There he goes, always disappearing.

And John wakes up. Alone.

 

*

 

John begins to worry. It’s been nine months and he still has no idea when Sherlock is coming back. He doesn’t even know that Sherlock feels for him what he feels. Before Sherlock left, John had given up on dating. But that was when Sherlock was around. Now, with Sherlock gone, it sort of feels silly.

Truthfully, if John thought Sherlock was dead, maybe he could move on. But he’s going to come back. Could be tomorrow, could be in five years. And knowing that prevents him from pursuing anything with anyone. Anytime he even thinks about someone else he ends up feeling guilty. He doesn’t _want_ to move on. That’s the real problem.  And Sherlock keeps saying _Be back soon_ and _Taking longer than expected._ He doesn’t think it will be so long then. There’s a nice woman at the clinic. She’s a nurse and her name is Mary. She’s flirted with John multiple times, and he can’t get himself to reciprocate or ask her on a date. He must not like her all that much.

 

*

 

John finds himself in Sherlock’s bed. The sheets are silk and it feels like a giant feather. He finds himself watching the crack in the ceiling that moves to the left corner. He pushes his palms into the downy mattress and closes his eyes. If he’s very still, he can pretend that Sherlock is here with him. Like he never left.

“Hey Sherlock,” John says out loud, surprising himself. He clears his throat and continues. “I always knew your bed was soft, but I didn’t realize just how much of a posh arsehole you were until now.”

“Yes well, it isn’t as if I paid for it myself. I used Mycroft’s card.”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice is so unnerving that John almost opens his eyes. But he doesn’t. He squeezes them shut and allows the fantasy to wash over him.

“Mm,” John hums. “You were gone for a long time.”

“I agree,” Sherlock says. “I kept thinking I was going to get back and then things kept getting in the way.”

Sherlock’s voice is warm and deep. It’s positively lovely to hear. John thinks about reaching out and touching Sherlock’s shoulder, but then remembers he can’t do that. He thinks back to his last days with Sherlock, before the madman ran off without him. What was it that Sherlock had said, the thing about the man that got shot in front of them? _He saved my life but he couldn’t touch me. Why?_ Why indeed.

John almost keeps up the façade, goes to say something back to the Sherlock in his head but the fantasy has already been broken by the all too real memory.

 

*

 

Christmas comes. He spends the holiday with Harry. She breaks out the good scotch, and John doesn’t stop her. He should, he knows, but he doesn’t. He’s too tired to do much. Harry puts on records and talks over them. She talks about Clara, and it doesn’t annoy John as much as it normally would. The scotch helps.

“I talked to her last month. It was nice. She asked me if I wanted to come to Christmas with her parents. I said no. We’re not really together and I don’t know that we ever will be again. No use pretending.”

“You’re really really done then?” John asks. Harry breaks out her cigarettes. John eyes her but she rolls her eyes in response.

“Yeah. It wasn’t just the drinking though. I know what you’re thinking. It was other things too.” She takes a drag and shakes her head.

“What other things?” John asks, genuinely curious. He _had_ always thought it was the booze.

“I don’t think we can make each other happy. I think we’ve fallen out of love.”

“That isn’t a real reason at all. Continuing to love someone is a choice. You work at it Harry. You don’t just fall out of love.” John feels worked up by this, irrationally so. Harry’s brows pull together in confusion.

“And what do you know about relationships? You’ve not been in a real one in ages. And I’ve seen you run away from your feelings for the last two years with that flat mate of yours.” She raises her eyebrows and smirks. John feels his face go hot.

“Yeah well he’s not here is he?” John says, taking a sip of scotch, trying not to sound too bitter.

“John I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Harry trails off. “It’s just. Well. I’m surprised at how easily you admitted to it.” She gives him a small smile. John smiles back.

“I’m full of surprises aren’t I?”

“Yes you are. I’m sorry though.”

“I miss him.”

“You shouldn’t be in that flat by yourself. Have you even gotten rid of any of his things?”

John thinks about telling her. She’s looking at him with such concern, and he hasn’t been able to talk to anyone about this. But he thinks of Mycroft, and he worries that saying something to Harry will put Sherlock in even more danger. So he finishes his drink and bites his tongue.

“I like the flat. I’m not leaving it. And I may not have gotten rid of his things but his brother wanted to keep them. I could move out but I don’t want to leave Mrs. Hudson. I know it’s a bit not good. But I suppose I’m just not ready.”

“God, you must really love him.”

“Yeah,” John says, not bothering to correct the present tense. “Yeah I really do.”

 

John stays with Harry after Christmas all the way to the New Year. Harry cooks them breakfast almost every morning and smokes cigarettes with her coffee but besides Christmas and New Year’s Eve she doesn’t touch the alcohol. It’s a step in the right direction and makes John feel less guilty for indulging with her.

They ring in the New Year with red wine and they go to bed shortly after midnight. John sleeps poorly and dreams about Sherlock for the thousandth time. He’s starting to get sick of himself. He leaves early in the morning. He kisses Harry’s cheek and tells her to cut down on the smoking. She only rolls her eyes.

When John arrives back at the flat Mrs. Hudson is still over at her sister’s. It’s eerily quiet as he climbs the stairs to 221B. He stops on the stairs though. After all that rummaging and destroying of the flat he’d done months ago there was one place he forgot to check. 221C. He bounds back to the landing and in a brilliant, manic burst starts attempting to kick the door in. He isn’t about to wait around for Mrs. Hudson and her keys. She would also ask what he wanted to do in 221C anyway. So he grunts and groans until the door gives. He slams his right side into the door until the door flies open.

The room is completely empty. It’s dusty and dingy with disuse. John pants in the middle of the empty flat, completely out of breath. He spins around in a circle three times, desperately hoping to find a sign of something, anything.

“Fuck,” John says, feeling crazed and dizzy. “Sherlock. Fuck.”

Sweat trickles down his temples and he wipes it away. He’s broken into a flat and now he’ll have to explain to Mrs. Hudson. He’s got no idea what he’ll tell her. He leaves 221C and slams the door behind him as he leaves. He stomps back to 221B and unlocks the door. He feels dead tired suddenly. He closes the door to 221B and then slides down slowly against it. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighs heavily. He had just hoped so much. He’s sick of waiting. He needs the waiting to end. What if Sherlock has been alone on Christmas?

 

It’s four days later when John checks the mail to find an envelope hand addressed to him in the damnable loopy chicken scratch.

John tears the envelope open and almost rips the card. The front of the card is a dog wearing a Santa hat. John smiles at the stupidity of it and then opens it. It’s a blank card, but Sherlock’s handwriting takes up most of the card.

_Merry Christmas_

That’s all it says, and John tries not to be disappointed. Sherlock is sending reminders to John. _I’m here. I’m not dead._ As if John could forget.

 

*

 

 _If he’s out there, I want him_ , John thinks. _I don’t care how long it takes. I want him._

 

*

 

It wouldn’t have been a problem except that John starts to think he’s seeing him in the waking hours too. As if Sherlock is just walking around London, watching John in the shops and at the clinic and following him to the trains.

It’s almost always in large crowds. Sometimes John will see the sweep of a long coat or a head of dark curls and think it’s him. Just for a moment. It’s always quick and John knows it’s nonsense but his heart speeds up every time. His mind is playing tricks on him, he knows, but it’s painful all the same.

Once, he gets stuck waiting for the tube. It’s just so crowded, and he thinks he sees his pale, gangly limbs between a woman with blonde hair and a man talking on the phone. John moves to follow the slender figure but loses sight almost immediately. He curses, and heads back to the station and just barely misses the train. He curses again. Thinks harder. John knows it wasn’t him, couldn’t have been. He just wants it to be him so badly. What would he even do if it were really him? _Kiss him_ John thinks instantly. But of course he can’t do that _. Stop being stupid_ he tells himself, in Sherlock’s, and winces.

 

*

 

It’s been exactly a year. For some reason, John thinks that means something is going to happen. Mrs. Hudson makes John tea and toast with his favorite apricot jam and leaves it out without saying a word. She tiptoes around him. She knows what day it is, and is being kind. John smiles at how sweet she is, and then heads to the shower.

He hates that he’s doing it, and he doesn’t know anything for certain but he shaves and puts on his “date” clothes. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and doesn’t hate it. He sighs at himself and clenches his fists at his sides. Nods. Sherlock is going to show up today.

Only he never does.

John even skips his shift at the clinic calling in sick. He sits and waits in the flat. He reads and does the newspaper’s crosswords. He cleans the flat, knowing that the tub had gotten a little out of control over the past month. He stays up until midnight and Sherlock never comes up the stairs. Twice he thinks he hears footsteps, but it’s his hopeful imagination at work. After midnight, once the date is no longer the anniversary, John realizes Sherlock isn’t going to come home. Or if he had planned on it, that plan was no longer in action. John pours himself a whiskey and sits down in his chair. He opens his blog and after four fingers of whiskey starts typing. He hasn’t typed up anything for the blog since Sherlock went away.

_I want to make one thing perfectly clear,_

John types. He pours himself another two fingers. He has a right to this.

_Sherlock and I were never together. But if he were here now, I’d like for us t  be. Sherlock, you used to read all of my draft blog posts. Read this one too. I love you, you g  it, and hurry back. I loee you I love you I love you_

_John_

Reading it back in the morning was highly embarrassing but John doesn’t delete it.

 

*

 

The months pass. And John doesn’t hear a word. The want grows to be a dull ache like there’s a hook in the left ventricle of his heart. It hurts but he grows used to it. It’s a constant reminder. John should have known all those months ago, when Sherlock jumped: he was never going to move on. Sherlock was simply it.

 

*

 

 

It’s snowing hard. John buttons up his coat and wraps a scarf around his neck. He locks the door behind him and looks out into the snowy morning. It’s all so white and bright. His jacket isn’t warm enough, but he moves towards the road anyway. And then he looks to his left.

Sherlock is standing there. There’s snow caught in his hair. He’s leaning against 221, smoking a cigarette. John blinks a few times. He inhales and exhales deeply. He’s awake.

“Sherlock?” John asks, his head tilting to one side.

Sherlock looks up from his feet. He’s surprised to see John, apparently. He throws the cigarette onto the snow covered sidewalk.

“John!” Sherlock says. He doesn’t move from the wall. He’s shivering. He’s been standing outside the flat for longer than five minutes. John walks towards him slowly. His heart feels like it’s beating out of its chest and he no longer feels chilly. He feels like he’s going to sweat out of his jacket now.

“You’re back,” John says, voice quiet. He’s been telling himself for months that as soon as Sherlock got back he’d kiss him, damn any consequences. But now he feels nervous. Too nervous. Sherlock has snow in his eyelashes too. He’s more beautiful than John remembered. Of course.

“Yes. Finally.”

“You missed Christmas again,” John says matter-of-factly. He thinks maybe if he just states facts he’ll be able to push through this.

“Yes. Sorry. John I’m so sorry,” Sherlock starts, and then his eyes dart left and right, anxious. “I’m.” Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets.

“How long have you been standing out here?”

“I think it’s been about thirty minutes now.”

John laughs. Sherlock gives him a thin lipped smile.

“Why have you been standing out in the cold?”

“To be honest. I was a little nervous about going up. Though you’re not…angry with me so clearly you’ve been getting my notes.”

John scoffs and shakes his head. He still wants to punch him a bit. Or kiss him so hard it bruises. Either one.

“Yeah I’ve gotten your notes. You utter bastard. Come inside Sherlock.”

Sherlock walks towards John finally. He stands close enough that if John reached out he could touch him. John hates how awkward this feels. Instead of dealing with how much he wants to grab Sherlock, John turns on his heel and unlocks the door.

Sherlock follows John inside. When they get into 221B John hangs his scarf up, forgetting what he was even leaving the house for. Sherlock stands in the doorway of the flat, looking hesitant to come in. Like he’s out of place walking into his own home. John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock finally walks through the doorway.

Sherlock looks around the flat and then nods slowly.

“All my things are still here.”

“Of course they are. I knew you were coming back.”

“But you didn’t know when.”

John shrugs.

“Didn’t matter.”

For a moment John thinks he’s going to carry on like nothing has happened. He thinks he’ll tell Sherlock to sit down and make him tea. Bring out the chocolate biscuits that he likes. They’ll turn on the telly and watch something mindless and get used to each other again. But John doesn’t quite manage it.

“Two years?”

“Yes well it wasn’t supposed to be that long.”

“How long was it supposed to be?”

“Six months tops.”

“What the hell happened?”

“It was harder than I thought.” Sherlock’s voice is hardly above a whisper. John has never seen him so…timid.

He wonders how much Sherlock has changed. There’s a hesitance lingering about him that was never there before. It’s a little scary and a little sweet. Everything John thinks to do to ease the tension ends up seeming trite. Offer him tea? Take his coat? None of it is correct. Not by a long shot. Finally, after looking out the window then looking at _him_ then looking at the wallpaper then looking at _him_ , John rolls his eyes at himself.

“Sit down, you’re making me fidgety just looking at you.” Then, for no apparent reason, “I missed you.”

Sherlock falls into a heap and down into his chair. His coat makes for a pile of cloth around his waist, bundled up around the armrests. He doesn’t take his eyes off of John. Sherlock audibly gulps.

“I missed you too. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” John parrots back, and slumps into his own chair. Why is this so hard?

“Does Mrs. H. know?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head.

“No. I only arrived in London three hours ago. I went to see my brother. To get myself back in order. Then…here I am.” John nods, and Sherlock continues. “He was very angry with me when he realized I’d been in contact with you. Actually don’t know that he’s ever been so angry with me. Anyway…no, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know.”

“We should go ge--” John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“No. I like it only being you that knows I’m alive. At least for another day.”

“Oh.”

John lets out a light chuckle. He can feel himself blushing harder still, as if that were possible. Just him and Sherlock. Like before.

“I knew you weren’t dead. But it’s still a little like I’m looking at a ghost or something.”

Sherlock laughs and John laughs too. This is a little easier. Maybe they’ll be okay.

 

*

 

They’re opening their second bottle of red wine. Sherlock is flush in his cheeks, laughing. He’s also been smoking a lot of cigarettes out the open window but John is too happy he’s here at all to lecture him. In the morning, when things settle John will start in on him about the smoking.

“I just wish I could have been there to help,” John says after taking too large a swallow. Sherlock instantly begins to shake his head.

“I don’t. It was awful. If something would have happened to you. No.” Sherlock takes a long drag.

“What makes this so much different than any other case we were on together? It’s always dangerous,” John insists.

“This was different.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“At some point,” Sherlock says. He sips lazily at his wine. “Not tonight though.”

John nods. John has only been here in London worrying and wondering after Sherlock, but if Sherlock were to ask how it had been for him while he was away he wouldn’t want to tell him.

“Sorry,” John mumbles, feeling self-conscious.

“Don’t be. I want to tell you. It’s just so fresh still.”

It’s odd for John to listen to his voice. It’s more gravely now, what with all the smoke. But it’s deeper with a drunken sleepiness too. And there’s a lazy smoothness that’s absolutely lovely. He could listen to Sherlock talk all night. In fact, he intends to.

“I know so much has probably changed while I’ve been gone,” Sherlock says. He taps on his wine glass. His cigarette is burning to the filter in the ashtray Sherlock stole two years ago. “I know I shouldn’t expect to be able to just walk back in here. And have you be okay with it,” Sherlock cocks one eyebrow. “I’d like to, but that’s not realistic.”

“Actually it might be,” John says. It’s out of his mouth before he realizes. John swallows more wine and then sighs. “That’s not to say that I’m not still…frustrated. It hurt that you left. But once I knew you were still alive. I don’t know.” John clears his throat, feeling overexposed. He’s had too much wine. It’s late. But he doesn’t want to go to sleep. He’s afraid if he goes to sleep he’ll wake up and Sherlock will be gone.

“I appreciate it,” Sherlock says. “I mean it.”

“Yeah well, you’re my best friend.” John finishes his wine.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” John lets out a laugh. “Even now, you utter bastard.”

Sherlock breaks out into a grin. The smile takes up his whole face and it’s magnificent.

“I’ve never been anyone’s best friend before.”

“Gee, wonder why?”

They both break out laughing. It comes easily, and John starts to breathe.

“It’s really good to have you back Sherlock,” John says. His eyelids feel heavy. He rests his chin on his hand and leans forward.

“Me too,” Sherlock says, and then laughs, realizing that doesn’t quite make sense. John thinks about reaching across the space between them and resting his hand on Sherlock’s knee. He doesn’t though. He just laughs with his eyes closed, head tipped back. He’s drunk. And very happy. And very in love.

 

*

 

John wakes up on the floor of the living room. Sherlock is awake on the sofa, looking at his phone. So, it hadn’t all been a dream. John gets up, heads towards the kitchen, then remembers he’d locked the door.

“The door has been locked, Mrs. Hudson is going to wonder if I’m okay,” John says as he flips the lock over. He’d locked it per Sherlock’s request. _I’m not ready_ he’d said, and John couldn’t deny Sherlock anything. It’s surprising though, and lucky, that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t come up yet.

“She probably thinks you’ve brought someone home,” Sherlock says, running a hand through his hair.

John laughs and clicks his tongue.

“What?” Sherlock asks. “From what I remember that isn’t so far-fetched.”

“No,” John says, voice low, heat rising in his cheeks. Sherlock’s brows are furrowed.

“Why not?” Sherlock looks earnestly baffled, like he hadn’t noticed that John hadn’t even been on a date the last four months they knew each other.

“Wasn’t working,” John says sternly, trying for _drop it,_ with his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t say anything else about it, so he must have gotten the point, and John sighs with relief.

“Coffee?” John asks, looking for something to do with his hands.

“God, yes,” Sherlock groans, putting his head in his hands. “And a painkiller if you’ve got it. My head is pounding.” John laughs at that and heads to the kitchen. He brings back Sherlock a small pill bottle and a glass of water. Sherlock nods in thanks.

“Hand me a couple of those,” John says. Sherlock shakes two white coated pills out of the bottle, and John’s stomach turns over. They’re both a wreck, and they’re smiling at each other. John dry swallows the pills and cringes. Sherlock passes him the water, knowing. It helps.

John turns to go back towards the kitchen, but Sherlock grabs his wrist.

“Sit down,” Sherlock says. “Please.” So John does.

Sherlock’s eyelids are drooping, but he’s serious now. He has his hands in his lap and his eyes on John. His face is soft.

“John, do you want me to stay?”

John’s heart gives a painful jump inside his chest.

“Why would you ask me that?” John whispers. He can’t quite get his voice to rise to a normal volume. His fists clench.

“I only meant…I know I hurt you. When I left. Two years is a long time. I wanted to be sure.”

“Do you want to stay here?” John asks, voice still barely audible. His heart is pounding.

“More than anything.”

John nods and takes a moment to process.

“Okay.”

Sherlock is very close to John on the sofa. John can see the blue of the veins in his wrists. It’s beautiful. John thinks of kissing it. All the times he wanted to previously come back. Will he be able to survive like this? John looks back up at Sherlock’s face. His mouth is slightly open and he’s looking at John’s mouth. John swallows hard on his fear and nods.

“Hey Sherlock,” he hears himself say from somewhere far away. “Stop me if I’m wrong, okay?”

Before John can reach Sherlock’s mouth fully, Sherlock is falling onto him, his hands on John’s face.

Sherlock tastes like a dirty ashtray. His hair smells like one too. And it’s perfect. His tongue goes up the side of John’s, and John smiles, the taste of hangover sour and genuinely perfect. None of it matters. It’s Sherlock for Christ’s sake. A hand runs through the hair at the back of John’s head and Sherlock whimpers slightly. It’s intoxicating. Maybe John is still just the tiniest bit drunk. He laughs into the kiss as he wraps a hand around Sherlock’s neck.

He feels wild with this, for lack of a better phrase, life change. He feels Sherlock’s tongue drag along his bottom lip, and then John fully realizes what is happening to him. John pulls back the smallest amount, to let them both breathe.

“So I was right?”

Sherlock laughs, and squeezes the nape of John’s neck.

“John you should know. There’s something I meant to say always and then never have.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m in love with you, by the way.”

“Well that’s good news,” John says, trying to make his brain catch up. “Excellent news. I love you too, git.”

Sherlock laughs again, and then puts his mouth on John’s neck, and kisses his way back up to John’s lips. John hopes he never stops.

 

*

 

They finally make it into the kitchen. John makes coffee while Sherlock watches, still in his wrinkled button up from the day before. He looks rough, rough like John feels. They bicker a little about how much milk to put into the coffee and as Sherlock is about to make another overly-dramatic point Mrs. Hudson walks in with a tea tray in her hands. She sees Sherlock and immediately drops the entire thing onto the wood floor. John sighs and Sherlock bites his bottom lip as he cringes.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says quietly. He actually looks nervous. Mrs. Hudson wipes her hands on the apron she’s wearing and John sees they’re shaking.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she shouts. “Young man what are you doing in my kitchen!”

“Well technically it always was my kitchen,” Sherlock starts, and then backtracks. “But yes I’ve returned. Sorry for the fright.” He gives her one of his chesire cat smiles and she slaps him on the shoulder. It looks like it must have hurt at least a little as Sherlock rubs at it.

“I missed you! He missed you! You lied…” And then she turns to John. “Did you know he was alive this whole time?!” She demands. John rolls back on his heels and places his hands behind his back, keeping his mouth shut.

Mrs. Hudson scoffs angrily and marches straight out of the kitchen, leaving the shattered tea cups, milk, and honey all scattered across the floor.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

 

*

 

John sighs and rests his arms on the back of the sofa. The telly hums low and Sherlock is sitting beside him. They’d ordered carryout earlier, had tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up after she had calmed down. She had looked at the two of them and tutted, smiled, and clicked on her heels away. She had even closed the door. She had always known, even if they hadn’t been before. Sherlock lies down on his back and some of his hair falls onto John’s thighs. John runs his fingers through the soft curls and hums contentedly. Sherlock grunts low as he shifts and places his head fully into John’s lap. John smiles and places a palm on the side of Sherlock’s face.

“I love you,” John says, tilting his head.

“Today has been perfect,” Sherlock replies. His eyes are lidded, sleepy and lovely. They had showered and slowly gotten over their hangovers with toast and dumplings. After Sherlock had started going through all of the things in his bedroom, sorting, and throwing away. Then he had plopped down next to John on the sofa and had not left his side for hours as John flipped through the novel he was reading. They didn’t talk. John didn’t think Sherlock was ready to. “Thank you John.”

“Thank me for what?”

“You didn’t leave,” Sherlock whispers, and shuts his eyes. John massages Sherlock’s hairline.

“Of course not. I knew you were alive. There was nothing else to do.”

Sherlock lets out a little chuckle. John can feel the vibration from the laughter against his thighs. Seeing Sherlock so relaxed and happy warms John’s heart. His mouth feels dry and he worries he might cry but John doesn’t, he tugs on Sherlock’s hair instead and Sherlock whines a little in response. Sherlock opens his eyes and then rolls over to his right, pushing his face into John’s stomach. Sherlock takes John’s shirt in balled fists. John rubs Sherlock’s back. His entire chest hurts, it feels heavy and painful and completely overwhelming. Sherlock is so absolutely present after so long, John isn’t sure what to do with himself.

“I love you,” John says again, voice coming out hoarse.

Sherlock sits up and kisses John hard. Sherlock’s palms find John’s neck, then chest, then sneak their way under John’s t-shirt. John snakes his hands into Sherlock’s hair. “I love you,” John says again. He can’t seem to stop saying it.

Sherlock is everywhere at once. He climbs fully on top of John, straddling him.

“I want you,” Sherlock whispers. “Can I-I-” And John can hardly believe it but Sherlock is stuttering. John nods quickly, kisses Sherlock again.

“Yes, of course,” John finally manages, and it all happens so quickly after that. It happens with the telly still playing softly, bathing Sherlock in blue light. And Sherlock’s voice low, breath hitching. It feels languid and like the most tender thing John has ever done. John whispers things to Sherlock, things he’d forgotten he wanted to say while he had been away.

Sherlock rests his forehead on John’s shoulder, the bad one. John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and swallows hard as he looks at him. John gulps for air and then feels his eyes sting.

“You can’t leave again,” John starts, and then clears his throat, shakes his head, that had come out horribly. “No. No what I mean is. You can leave _me_ , of course, but you can’t disappear. Without me knowing if you’re dead or alive, hurt or not, please. You don’t even have to stay I just want to know that you’re alright,” John says, rambles more so. John wipes at his eyes, feeling very silly, but it had been so unexpected.

“Don’t be stupid. A complete idiot. That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Sherlock says, panting a bit. He kisses John and John can taste the sweat on him. “I never would have left in the first place if I’d had the option.”

John nods and smiles and squeezes the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Okay,” he says, composing himself. He’s simply so in love, there’s nothing else to be said about the matter.

They’ve made a complete mess of each other. They stumble into the shower together. Sherlock insists on washing John’s hair for him, which makes John laugh endlessly. After the shampooing, Sherlock pushes John against the slick tile wall of the tub and kisses him. The whole bathroom smells like mint, and as Sherlock gets down on his knees for John in the tub, John thinks about how he’d dumped the shampoo bottles open looking for a sign that Sherlock was still alive. John has to push the back of his skull against the wall hard to keep his legs from going out underneath him as he tugs Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock whimpers beneath him.

They dry off, and Sherlock, in the full light of the bathroom, is too thin. John will have to fatten him back up. He looks forward to it.

Sherlock leads John into his bedroom. As John climbs into the bed he realizes the last time he’d been in it was when he had laid in it wondering if Sherlock was ever coming back, while he had fantasized about Sherlock showing up out of nowhere. Sherlock curls up on the right side of the bed, farther away from the door. John feels so tired, but he thinks if he closes his eyes Sherlock might be gone when he opens them.

“I’m afraid to fall asleep,” John says out loud, surprising himself.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. Or I’ll have made it all up.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock curls an arm around John’s waist under the silk sheets. “I’ll probably never go anywhere ever again. I’ll handcuff myself to you.”

“Do you remember the last time we were handcuffed?” John mumbles, feeling sleepy.

“Don’t remind me,” Sherlock replies, burying his nose in John’s neck. John falls asleep.

 

*

 

When John wakes up the bed is empty and he tries very hard not to panic. He swallows down his immediate horror, and opens the bedroom door.

Sherlock is there, in his blue silk robe, feet bare, laughing so hard at something Mrs. Hudson has said that his nose is scrunched up and his shoulders are shaking. Mrs. Hudson has a hand over her mouth, but her laugh is coming out so loud and untamed that she sounds like a strange bird. It’s the most wonderful thing John has ever seen. He smiles and slumps against the wall. He crosses his arms. He sighs contentedly, and goes to join them.

**Author's Note:**

> and i continue to endlessly uhhhh be the most self indulgent person alive. for more screaming blairwiches.tumblr.com ✌


End file.
